


Structural Integrity

by wubz-bubx-redux (Inorganic_soot)



Series: Memory is a Fickle Thing [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blood, Blood Magic, Crying, Dark!Ford, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, First Time Blow Jobs, Gaslighting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mind Manipulation, Oral Sex, Rain, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, mention of filbrick pines - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11618865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inorganic_soot/pseuds/wubz-bubx-redux
Summary: Ford plants seeds in Stan's mind.In other words, Ford has wanted Stan for too long. It is time to take matters into his own hands and rectify the situation, even if it means having to alter his own brother's memories."When the door opens again, it is 1982 and Stan and Ford are fighting, his brother is gripping the burnt skin of his shoulder. He watches, just for a moment, and admires the smoothness of Stan’s skin in the sickly glow of the portal, the heart-rending desperation of his sobs after he pushes Ford into oblivion."For the Summer Of Stancest - Mindscape prompt





	1. Cangiante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Renaissance art style Cangiante is characterized by the painter's changing to a different, lighter, hue when the original hue cannot be made light enough or, on the converse, changing to a darker hue when the original hue cannot be made dark enough.
> 
> (credit to Wikipedia)

The fall is endless. The swooping sensation of a hypnic jerk lengthened to eternity. He lands gracelessly, knees shaking as he falls forward with a small splash. His arms are stretched out before him, fingers digging into the soft sand; water slithers over the back of his hands. His eyes are clenched shut. He heaves: once, twice. Nausea pulses in his skull and sinuses before he takes a deep breath and reorients himself. He feels loose and untethered; a floating phantasm. The water is a boon, salty and cool, dribbling off his clothes and palms leaving him completely dry as he pushes himself up gingerly.

Stan's mindscape is slowly healing devastation — the remnants of a seaside town after a hurricane. A ghost grey ocean laps at his boots, tugging him forward into its depths. Even the salt in the air is heavy with something he cannot identify, thick and cloying like hopelessness. It reminds him of Glass Shard Beach.

He shouldn’t be here. This is an invasion of the most intimate and primal form. But Ford has always been a little selfish, he’s self-aware enough to admit that, and this — this is for both of them really, this is for the best. He's wanted Stan to himself since he was young, has wanted him helplessly devoted to him alone.

Joy bubbles in his chest, making him feel lighter. _Finally after all these years_ —

He's had this spell in the corner of his mind for a very long time, it's a refinement of the possession curse he'd documented so long ago, when he wandered the forests of Gravity with naive temerity, when he was still a wet behind the ears boy purporting himself as a scientist. He's rather proud of what he's created, it is an elegant marriage of sorcery and science — and is it bad that he's proud? He had to worked for hours, amalgamating neuroscience with the occult until he'd finally found a way to alter a mindscape permanently. He feels almost like Bill, but no, that is not a line of thinking he wishes to follow and even so, Bill couldn't change you from the inside, couldn't reform you into the image he wanted. What Bill Cipher did Stanford Pines did _better._

And it is different. He _loves_ Stan, he always has and he has dreamed of this for decades. He's entitled to this.  Surely after 30 years of suffering on the other side of the portal he deserves this? It shouldn’t even be a question. It was Stan, after all, who had pushed him into a literal hellscape and Ford has forgiven him. He truly has, but only an idiot would ignore the pattern of behaviour Stan was exhibiting. His brother was always so stubborn and bullheaded, so destructive. He has always needed a guiding hand. He has always needed Ford.

The others wouldn't understand, they hadn't seen what Ford had. They hadn't lived the way Ford had. And though he loves the twins, they are burdened with a very planetary mindset. They fail to see the bigger picture, which is unfortunate; yet he cannot find it within himself begrudge them their youthful innocence. No matter, they would never know anyway.

He can see the vague shape of the Mystery Shack, twisted and broken. He walks to it, wet sand crunching underneath him, it shimmers slightly, a mirage that solidifies and gains detail as he moves towards it. There are gaping caverns in its side as though it was the gouged out corpse of some broken creature, corridors lead off into the dark abyss of the sea — nothingness, the roof and walls bend and sag under an unknown yet ever present weight.

What is more corporeal is the boat he can see off into the distance behind the shack. Shrouded in fog as it may be, the dimensions of the Stan-o-War are perfect. Their relationship made physical in the gnarls of old wood and red paint. Even the fluttering sail is patched up in the same exact places he remembers from his youth. This pleases Ford on a fundamental level, he enjoys being the singular point of his brother's existence, his true and unwavering north. The only thing worth remembering.

He thinks for a moment that perhaps the relative tangibility of the Stan-o-War may be due to their constant contact and interaction before dismissing the idea. It is more romantic this way.

Ford had considered using some bastardized form of the memory gun. The technology is all there, merely requiring fine tuning and tweaking, but he can't; he can still feel his fingers shaking as he presses the trigger, white light engulfing his kneeling brother's downturned head, the picture of a man facing a firing squad. He can't do that to Stan again and isn't that such a testament to his love?

And if he is grateful to the machine, it is only because amnesia makes his brother the perfect canvas. He could not do this when Stan's memories were firm and worn smooth and hard, but now they are malleable little things that mold beneath the pressure of his hands. Besides, technology was so clinical, so cold. Magic had a certain charm to it — an attitude, an aftertaste. It would allow him to embed his signature into the very depths of Stan's psyche, carve his name into the building blocks of his brother. He cares so deeply for Stan, and he's only ensuring the right kind of reciprocity.

He goes inside the Shack first. The door swings open with a pained creak and just like in a dream, its external construction play no role in its inner dimensions. The inside is not as dilapidated as he'd imagined. Dark and dusty perhaps, mired in years of futility and anger but there is a certain lustre in the wood, a gleam in the burnished metal of the door handles, the faint scent of tenacity and success and hope. His brother is such a resilient man.

He knows where he must go, down the corridor into a room that is littered with glass, broken snow globes everywhere — the gift shop. He bends and picks up a glass shard, placing it in his pocket. The shelves have all tilted to the side, angry slashes on the wall; the souvenirs form an indiscernible heap on the floor. Crossed out words, question marks are strewn across the room, remnants of 30 years of half-remembered oddities and curios. The vending machine is silent and empty, looming up in front of him. It is impossibly large, and reaching it takes an unimaginably long time as though each of his strides are an inch long.

He taps out the code, muscle memory causing his fingers to dart across the pad, and it slowly shifts to the side, a jarring screech echoing across the room as it moves. The stairs are old and rickety, but they have always been so. It is the elevator that different, it is smaller than he remembers but he does not care. The ride down fills him with an unfathomable excitement; he begins making his final preparations — he is so close.

When the door opens again, it is 1982 and Stan and Ford are fighting, his brother is gripping the burnt skin of his shoulder. He watches, just for a moment, and admires the smoothness of Stan’s skin under the sickly glow of the portal, the heart rending desperation of his sobs after he pushes Ford into oblivion.

Stanford presses his palms against the border of the memory, sigils carved and bleeding on his hand, and everything rewinds, changing ever so slightly as the original memory is rewritten and remade. Ford’s demand for Stan to sail away is more poignant — a rejection of the highest form. The way they grapple is now mired in a sultry, erotic tension; each move a subtle caress lost in anger. Even his fall through the portal is different, their eyes meet and what passes between them is a lover’s farewell. He does not need to alter the desolation Stan feels when he realises he is alone, that is deep enough.

A small rivulet of blood traces its way down his finger, collecting at the tip before wobbling faintly and dropping to the floor. His job here is done.

The next place he visits is Stan’s safe. The iron monstrosity trembles as the light from the hallway is cast on it. It is barely tangible, shivering and unlocking as he touches it, falling open in rapturous recognition. He does not expect to see the deed with his name lying inside, the ink in his name still fresh and spreading. He tries to move it to the side but his hand falls through. The bottom of the safe has disappeared and he has an eagle’s eye view of his return home.

Stan looks so hopeful, his arms spread out to welcome him. He wants to step inside and gather him in against his chest, hold him close but he can’t. His past self walks through and their meeting is as painful as he remembers.

This time as the drop of blood falls, the world below him reforms into something softer. When he holds Stan’s hands behind his back, the tremble Stan had repressed now shudders through him, electric with something that was not there before. His lips graze Stan's ears longer than they should, whispering _I was scared for you_. And when Stan falls forward, Ford’s knee heavy on his back, his brother doesn’t struggle against him but melts, putty in his hands. His eyelashes fan against his cheeks as he revels in the sensation of Ford against him in the space between heartbeats.

Ford feels like a voyeur, just watching this, but this was the reunion they both deserved. He closes the safe again, the numbers etched into the dial glow a livid scarlet before darkening back to black.

His hands in his pockets he turns his back to the Shack and leaves without a second thought, the Stan-o-War awaits.

The walk is colder than he imagined it would be, the wind is sharp and unyielding. His trench coats whips behind him. The Stan-o-War is large and it looks almost faded from up close, as though the sun and sea air have bleached it. He traces the wood with his fingertips, searching for an opening, leaving strokes of red in his wake.

He’s adding a special touch to all of Stan’s childhood memories by doing this and in some ways he thinks this is fitting; Stan was him for so long that perhaps it was time for Stan to truly be something in his image. It’s only a faint trace of a charm, a spice in the air; the kind that would have one close their eyes, just to focus on the aroma, to try and grasp the delicate strings of a long forgotten but exquisite memory. He breathes out, magic permeates the air in front of him before disappearing, absorbing into the ship. The wood is darker now, richer and toned with burgundy, his brother is redesigned before his eyes.

As he moves to the other side of the boat, he sees it. A small rocky outcropping. He scrabbles up it, careful to keep his bloody hand inside in his coat, close to his beating heart. From there it is child’s play to reach the deck.

He observes his surrounding quietly, nostalgia curling a loose grip around his heart. The sail catches a gust of wind and flutters, there is no darkness in its shadow: it is him and Stanley, shimmering like they are in a painting, unbearably young. He presses the fabric into his palm and the summer days he’s observing from 40 years in the future are hotter. Sweat drips down Ford’s back and Stan is watching him, his face unreadable but hunger in his eyes.

It is easy too, Stan was always the tactile one,  who sought physical comfort as a refuge from his fears. There are hundreds of moments that he can recall, Stan’s warm body pressed close to his. His larger frame trembling like a leaf as he cried about their father or, if he remembers correctly, when they were very young and still foolish enough to fear nature more than man, thunder. The memories are sweeter this way, syrupy with the heat between them.

He’s wanted Stan for so long it feels like he was born like this, that his desire was written into his DNA, into his genes. It stands to reason, then, as identical twins, Stan should feel this way too.

In each plank of wood, there is a story but he focuses on only the most important ones. The ones where he barely has to change a thing, so that the light falling on Ford is just this shade of warm and romantic, so that their hands brush against each other for a shade longer than brothers do, so that blushes bloom across Stan’s skin as often as bruises. So that the ache in Stan’s chest is not just overwhelming fondness and protectiveness but unrequited love. He edits a thousand days like this, dribbling blood all over them. He edits a thousand nights too, making them laden with fear, hope and bone-deep _yearning_.

Even though it does not seem like any time has passed, there is a rising expectation in the air; the sky is still covered by dark, brooding clouds but they look closer, burdened down by something. It will rain soon.

He is tired but he is almost done. There is only one more place he must visit — the swing set. He has only the barest inkling of where it could be, but Ford trusts himself, trusts in the knowledge he has of his brother.

He walks far into the land, until he can no longer see the crest of the sea against the horizon. Until the Mystery Shack is a dark smudge against the grey scale. But he knows where he must go.

When he finally sees the metal outline of the swing set glinting in the half-light, he runs. It is broken and rusted but that means nothing. His hand have stained the inner lining of his coat, the blood is thick and congealing. His fingers are stained red.

A drop falls. It is not red.

It has begun to rain. Ford knows he must hurry.

He places his bloodied hand on the metal, relishing its coolness. Each bump drags against the barely formed scabs on his palm, drawing fresh blood in its wake. In between the chains that hold the seat up Ford can see Stan sitting, his head bowed. He is translucent, water falling through him onto the seat, or perhaps those are tears.

It is the day Stan was kicked out, Ford is sure of it. He looks pitifully small, curled up in the swing like that, shoulders racked with heaving sobs as he cries. His arms can barely support his weight and he is slumped against the chains, needing them to stay upright. He is borne down by the events that have transpired. Ford moves closer, seeking to comfort him, and places his hand on Stan’s shoulder; the boy looks up at him, face swollen with unshed tears. Reflected in his eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions: the panic Stan must have felt when he realised Ford's project was broken, the plea for Ford to forgive him, the betrayal as Ford turned away from him and closed the curtains.

The blood seeps into his clothes, it mixes with rainwater and clings to his skin; it is now so much worse. The self-hatred that Stan has always felt is rawer, a barely healed wound. Stan believes he has been cast out by the only person he could ever love fully. And Ford feels guilt, a hollowness in his chest; it hurts to put Stan through this, but he feels relief as well, as though he can finally breathe after 60 long years. Stan has now suffered with him, the same way he has since they were children.

He is done here, done with mess of Stan’s mindscape. His brother is made anew.

He’s never thought to imagine that perhaps Stan has loved him all along, and while not exactly in the way that Ford wants; Stan would try for him, he would follow him to the ends of the earth if he was asked. That he was broken enough to accept whatever Ford requires and enjoy giving it to him —  for any scrap of affection — because he has been tearing apart at the seams without his brother and he needs Ford too much. Far more than Ford needs him.

 

* * *

 

Ford comes back to himself with a choked gasp. He is dizzy and his heartbeat hammers in his ears, hummingbird fast; his body protests upon his return, preferring the lax comfort of being soul-void. He feels heavy and wooden, his head is slumped back and his neck aches. He is damp. He clenches his fingers and they twinge painfully before he pushes himself to sit upright, his coat shifting around him.  

There was Stan, just as he’d left him; lying soft and supine in the darkness, safely nestled under the thick duvet. His face is slack and his brow is unlined. Little huffing breaths escape from his mouth, condensing in the cold winter air.

Ford shifts, a draught passes through the house, ruffling Stan’s grey hair, which is spun silver in the winter moonlight. A shiver of anticipation sparks through him, but he quells himself. He must be patient.  He rises from the couch next to his brother’s bed with some effort, the chill leeches the elasticity from his tendons. An audible crack rings through the air as his knees straighten. Stan stirs slightly.

Ford watches him, breath caught in his throat.

Stan opens his eyes. “Sixer?” His voice is heavy with confusion and sleep and something deeper.

A pale shaft of moonlight trickles across his face, highlighting his features in haut-relief; he seems dreamy and warm, a light blush staining his cheeks. He turns to look at Ford, his pupils dilating, ink spreading in water.

Ford smiles.


	2. Sfumato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sfumato" translated into English means soft, vague or blurred. Leonardo da Vinci described it as blending colours, without the use of lines or borders "in the manner of smoke." The technique is a fine shading meant to produce a soft transition between colours and tones, in order to achieve a more believable image.
> 
> (credit to Wikipedia)

The morning sunlight is bright and refreshing, flooding the kitchen, leaving only the faintest shadows lingering behind the cupboards. Two mugs sit in front of him, trails of vapour swirling and spiralling upwards from the dark brown liquid; it is exactly how Stan likes, he has made sure of it.

Ford’s injured hand rests on his thigh, tapping out the half-remembered beat of a song from his youth as he waits. It aches with every movement.

His brother will be up soon. He takes a long sip, relishing the bitter, scalding heat on his tongue.

It is not long before Stan shuffles into the room, looking haggard and careworn. A thick terry cloth robe is wrapped around him. The paleness of his skin and hair stands out starkly against the dark red material. He seats himself down on the table, across Ford. He does not look at his twin, his gaze is fixed on the window.

“It snowed last night.” His voice is rough, laden with emotion. He presses his fingers around the steaming cup of coffee Ford passes to him, their fingers brush. Stan does not startle at the contact. “It was snowing the first time I came up here.”

He becomes quiet after that, transfixed by the sight of the entire forest covered in an unceasing blanket of white. It seems so familiar.

Ford watches him, watches him cradle the mug between his hands, never taking a sip from it. He reminds him of a lost boy, waiting for direction. Light reflects off the snow, washing him off colour.

“Did you remember something?” He keeps his voice low, undemanding.

Stan finally turns to him; the brown of his eyes is surprisingly arresting against the pallor of his face. He appears unsettled, as if Ford has transformed into a new and frightening creature before him. His pupils are still very, very large.

Ford leans forward and reaches out, placing his hand on Stan’s shoulder in the same place he touched Stan’s memory-self last night, his grip is sure. His brother flinches and Ford gives a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s all right Stan, you can tell me.”

Stan looks down at that.

“Please, I just want to help you.” He withdraws his hand.

“It’s nothing, Ford.” He sounds panicked. He makes a move to get up but Ford tugs him down again.

Stan’s eyes narrow as he sees both of Ford’s hands, a flash of uncertainty twists his features before vanishing like it was never there.

“What happened?” He swallows thickly, gesturing to the thick bandage around Ford’s left palm.

“It was a lab accident.” Ford was as much his mother’s son as Stanley.

His brother frowns, still clearly troubled.

“Is that why you came into my room? I could’ve sworn I saw you.”

“I heard noises, I wanted to check on you.” Ford lies are smooth, practiced.

“Before dealing with your hand? There’s – There are some drops of bloods on my floor.” There is lingering hint of doubt in Stan’s tone. “It _was_ you.” He sounds wondrous, thunderstruck with realisation.

Ford crushes down the fear rising in his stomach. What is done, is done. Forever.

“I was worried, Stanley.” Ford is placating, the very image of fraternal concern. “Did you not sleep well?”

Stan hesitates a moment, his mouth opens and closes, as if he is on the cusp of saying something. He rises from the table.

“I slept fine.” His voices rises on the last word; he’s lying.

Ford watches him as he leaves.

 

* * *

 

He goes down to the laboratory after breakfast, finding comfort in the numbers, symbols and equations that cover the board. Stan rarely ventures down here.

He cannot allow himself to act suspiciously. The fizzing anticipation in his veins must be channeled, must be reined in and focused. He loses himself in his work, pouring himself into his projects. He has always been good at distracting himself; it is a skill he had to master early, living with Stan.

Science offers a soothing counterpoint to the magic he has entangled himself in recently. And while they are two sides of the same coin; logic, certainty and fact have always come to him easier than the tumult of spells and enchantments. He considers for a moment that Stan would certainly enjoy magic more than he ever would. Might even be better than him at it. He doesn’t know why but that makes him laugh.

It is late in the afternoon when his brother seeks him out again. Ford can hear the reverberating shudder of the elevator as it descends. His fingers are deep in the gut of another mechanical contraption, tampering with wires and screws; the physicality grounds him. He does not look up when Stan enters his study.

The silence stretches for an age. His brother studies him with an intensity that causes his neck to prickle. He feels a strange kinship with all of the animals he’s ever dissected, with every slide he’s observed through the lens of a microscope. A frisson runs through him.

“What did you do to me, Ford?” Stan does not sound accusatory, only tired.

Ford looks up at him, their gazes meet.

“Nothing.” There is a ringing finality to it.

Ford knows Stan does not believe him.

It does not matter. It is already far too late anyway.

 

* * *

 

The week moves by sluggishly. They rarely leave the house, venturing out only to restock necessities. The snow piles thick and high around them, caging them in. Even Ford does not go out into the forest to investigate. It is not worth the hassle. He prefers being at home, there are more pressing matters to attend to, more important things to be present for.

Stan is getting stir-crazy, Ford can tell. He can often hear him pacing, the thump of his steps above him as he works. As continuous and comforting as the pitter-patter of rain against his window.

The Mystery Shack is closed; it always is this time of year. No one would wade through the Oregon snow to visit an old cabin in the woods. No one except his brother.

He has spent another long day in the bowels of the house and he is finally ready to deconstruct the portal. There are bags under his eyes and his fingers twitch as he calculates phantom numbers that float in the air above him. He is lost in another world, barely aware of his body.

The elevator door opens and he shivers as cold air rushes around him, encasing him in its chill. He is so tired. He grips the railing, his gaze focused on the first insurmountable step. A shadow shifts, he turns his face up.

Stan is waiting for him, at the top of stairs. He’s taken off his suit jacket and his fez, the top buttons of his shirt are undone and Ford can see his jugular notch, the dip between his collar bones.

He watches Ford, unwavering.

A curl of tension unwinds its way from around his spine. He has been expecting this.

_Finally._

Each stride covers two steps.

They are eye level.

“How long, Ford?” His brother’s voice cracks on his name, jagged with disuse.

Ford tilts his head, confused.

“How long have you wanted me?” He stumbles over the words, a bright flush on his face.

“Do you really want to know?” He crowds closer to Stanley, his eyes bright and glittering in the dimness of the stairwell. He lowers his voice, just barely, creating a soft coating of intimacy between them. “Do you?”

Stan’s throat works, his adam’s apple bobbing slightly. He nods, a minute movement.

“Since we were boys, before we even saw the Stan-o-War. Before that even, for as long as I can remember, it’s always been you.” He feels a deep rush of heady joy, he is finally free of this burden. “I’m older than you, Stanley. I’ve loved you for as long as you’ve been alive.” He holds Stan’s hands tightly in his own, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Ford—” Stan sounds broken. He is frozen in place, unable to say anything.

But it is alright because Ford _understands_. He brackets Stan’s face between his palms, dragging his thumb across the bump of his cheekbone, and kisses him. He feels juvenile, but there is electricity sparking between each point of contact, concentrated into a buzz where there mouths meet.

Stan does not reciprocate but he whines, a tiny, gorgeous sound and Ford wants to steal the vibrations from the air, lock it away. He withdraws, desperate to see Stan. His stubble scrapes against his brother’s jaw.

Stan is wide-eyed. His lips are tantalising shade of pink.  Conflict is etched into every line of his features as new neural pathways are formed, destroying old ones. He’s already vacillating, holding Ford against him in a vice-like grip. He can’t bear to let go.

Ford is nothing if not thorough.

“We shouldn’t do this. I’ve never— I don’t want this—” His voice rises, high-pitched and breathy.

“Stan, don’t lie to yourself. You need this too.” _I’ve made sure of it,_ he wants to add. But he doesn’t. He has self-control, unlike Stan. The evidence is right in front of him, he’s managed to wait for this his whole life, but his brother could only bear a week of this accursed longing.

“I can’t want this.” He sounds on the verge of tears, unable to reconcile himself with these new feelings and he’s so deliciously frightened.  “When – How did this start?”

Stan is so confused; Ford should have predicted this, rewriting their entire relationship, the focal point of both of their lives, would obviously take a toll on his brother’s already fragile mindscape. But he doesn’t have it in him to regret his actions. Stan is so beautiful like this.

“Let go, Stan. Let go.” He presses himself close to Stan so that the cold cannot reach them, enveloping him in an embrace. “You’ll remember everything soon.” He soothes, one hand stroking Stan’s back.

“I can’t remember. I can’t remember. _I can’t remember_.” Stan’s shoulder are shaking; tears leaking from his eyes and staining his coat. Ford pulls back, wiping away the fat drops from Stan’s face, he is so pretty.

“Come here, little brother. Let me take care of you.” He leans into Stan, slowly pushing him up against the wall. Their foreheads touch and Stan’s eyes flutter shut.

He closes the gap between them and they are kissing again and this time, Stan responds. It feels better than anything he has ever imagined. He tips Stan’s face backwards, deepening the kiss. He nips at Stan’s bottom lip, hard enough to give the fleeting suggestion of pain, and draws blood. Stan moans, a deep, exultant sound cutting through the frigidity of their surroundings. His brother has always been a masochist.

He relieves the sting with his mouth, sucking at the broken skin. Redness tinges his lips, salt and iron on his tongue. He is eternally grateful that they are both twins, the spell would not have worked unless they shared the same blood.

He nibbles his way down Stan’s jaw and the man turns his head to the side, exposing the vulnerable skin of his neck, silently begging to be marked. He licks the bared skin, noses the soft hollow behind Stan’ ear so that his brother is quivering beneath him. He wants to take his time.

They kiss for what seems like hours, Stan is pliant, and warmth suffuses through Ford to see his brother so submissive, so eager. Stan’s tongue is still hesitant against his own but each time they slide against each other a breathy gasp is wrenched from his brother, his breath hot and humid against Ford’s face.

When Ford finally moves away, Stan follows him. A thin line of saliva connects their faces. His face is saturated with colour, his lips wet and bruised.

“Didn’t that feel good?” He whispers into Stan’s ear.

“Yes.” Stan murmurs, quiet and disbelieving.

“Let’s take this upstairs.”

He places a guiding hand on the small of Stanley’s back, insistent. His brother does not have it in him to refuse and he follows Ford up the stairs. His expression is vacant, but his internal conflict remains visible in his eyes. Ford does not know why he resists so strongly when his loss is inevitable, but he supposes that’s part of his brother’s charm. He has always been stubborn, persevering.

He pauses in front of Stan’s room, waiting to be invited in, giving his brother the illusion of control. It works, Stan visibly relaxes and pushes the door open, gesturing him inside. His grip on the handle is white-knuckled.

The room is just as he remembered it. He looks down, and in the light from the hallway he can see small flecks of brown on the floor. His blood. Why did he find that so satisfying?

He moves to the bedside, turning on the lamp. Stan is still standing outside, watching him. Ford beckons him forward, and his brother obliges, closing the door behind him so that they are utterly alone together. He could never refuse Ford.

“Come closer. I want to see you.” The warm glow of the lamp gilds Stan’s features, even his ears are tinted a delicate rose-gold.

He sits down on the bed, and Stan takes a shaky step forward, visibly overwhelmed. Ford feels his patience fraying at the edge but he calms himself. He must take care of Stanley first.

He tugs his brother forward by the belt loops, slipping down onto his knees at the same time. Stanley yelps and stumbles forward. He bends, hands on Ford’s shoulders in an effort to balance himself; he seems off-kilter, askew. He cups Stanley through his pants and _oh_ he’s already hard. Ford is pleasantly surprised by that.

The sound of the zipper opening is surprisingly jarring in the quiet of the room. Stan is still hunched over him. The head of Stan’s dick has left a damp spot on the front of his pants and Ford’s palm are starting to sweat. He can feel the heat of it, its outline. His mouth waters as he guides it through the slit of Stan’s boxers.

Stan jerks at the skin-to-skin contact, at the coolness of the night air against his dick. Ford wraps his finger around it, just to feel the weight and girth. It is so like his own but there are certain differences, its thicker, curves slightly less. Stan moans at his touch, a decadent sound.

His hands have always been larger than Stan’s but it has never been clearer until now, his extra finger gives it an extra width so that he can feel more of his brother’s hardness. He has never been so thankful for his polydactylism. When Stan looks down, he knows that the hand touching his dick is his brother’s, no one else’s. He can hear Stan whimper.

Ford places the tip of it against his mouth, presses dainty kisses to the head, gripping the shaft loosely. The kisses become progressively more open-mouthed and filthy, full of spit and heat and tongue. Stan’s hips make tiny, aborted movements forward, begging for something Stan cannot articulate.

Ford opens his mouth, sucking in as much of his brother’s dick as he can. He hears a choked sound, a sob and there is wetness on his forehead. He turns his face up, Stan is crying again. Their gazes lock and Ford bobs his head faster, the salt in the tears mixing with the salt of his skin, of his pre-come.

Stan leans even more heavily on him, his knees weak with pleasure and fear, face contorted. Stan cannot look away from him.

“Ford, please. Please, Sixer, I _can’t_ —“

He has never heard his brother say please before. He swallows around Stan’s cock, ruthlessly suppressing his gag reflex. He pushes a hand into the back of Stan’s pants, groping his ass, rubbing at his hole. Stan is keening because of him.

Stan is crying out, bucking into his mouth and onto his finger, incoherent with ecstasy. He presses the tip of his index finger inside his brother’s ass, it is beautiful to finally be inside him. He is as tight and hot as he is in Ford’s fantasies. His dick now aches as much as his jaw but Stan is still skittish, he can’t fuck him just yet.

 _“Ford.”_ Stan tries to tug his head back, but Ford wants to taste him as he comes. And _Christ,_ Stanley must have been celibate for a long time because his mouth is filled by it, bitter and blood-hot.

Ford rises, pushes Stan onto the bed and climbs on top of him. His brother looks dazed, punch drunk and licentiously debased. His cheeks are wet and he’s panting. Ford presses close to him, opening his mouth so Stan can taste his own release. When he pulls away, a pearlescent white smudge mars the bottom of Stan’s face. Ford watches as Stan’s tongue darts out to clean it off.

_Fuck._

Ford struggles to get his belt off, fingers trembling as he is seized by desire. His brother is laid out before him: limbs heavy, soft from orgasm, hole stretched slightly by Ford’s fingers. _One day, he’s going to fist him_.

“You’re so beautiful, Lee.” He breathes out, mouth brushing against the skin of Stan’s neck that’s beginning to rise with gooseflesh.

His cock is painfully hard, has been for ages. He takes Stan's hand in his own and molds it to grasp his dick. He’s never seen those five fingers, so similar and soft, on his cock, it’s everything he ever dreamed of.  Stan seems to understand, tentatively jerking his dick, tightening his fist, twisting just the way both of them like near the head, pressing his thumb against the slit—

“That’s it, Stanley. Just a bit more, sweetheart. You’re so good for me. I’ve wanted this for so long. God— God yes.” Ford feels like he’s about to explode, there is a tightness building behind his navel and he is so close.

He’s thrusting into Stan’s hand, fucking the spaces between his fingers. He’s dripping with pre-ejaculate and its being rubbed into softness of Stan’s palms. Sparks are flying behind his eyes and Stan’s watching his own fist get fucked by his brother, enraptured by the sight. Ford is licking the salty tracks of dried tears of his skin, the bed creaking with each jerk of his hips. It will be so good to fuck Stan into his mattress, have him crying with hypersensitivity as Ford pushes inside him again and again—

And Ford is coming, fast and hard into Stan’s fist and all over his shirt.

His brother looks debauched. All because of him. He collapses next to Stan, massaging his fingers against the places where his semen has pooled on his twin’s body.

Stan turns to look at him, the expression on his face is familiar. He remembers it from the first Stan looked at Ford after his memory was wiped: recognition and repression.

Stanley is shivering next to him, murmuring Ford’s name like a prayer. Ford hugs him close, Stan softens against his touch, curling himself against his brother’s chest.

“Don’t worry, I’ll always take care of you. Wherever we go, we go together.”

Stan just holds him tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay ambiguous morality and endings! 
> 
> So glad I powered through and got this done

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on https://wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com/ and leave a review! Also this is unedited so I apologize. 
> 
> This was my excuse to write some fucked up Ford and slowly grow faaar too fond of him. I listened to a shit ton of moody cello music while making this and shout out to Bratjedi's evil!Ford for inspiring me.


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